


Out of the System

by toyhto



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: But with a hint of angst, Getting Together, Inception Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Romance, So there's art!, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 04:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: It’s not like Eames has never had a crush before. It’s just that normally having a crush on someone isn’t so bloody annoying. Normally, he can fucking think. Normally, he doesn’t realise that for the last five minutes he’s been staring at someone’s ass while they’ve been writing very important figures on the chalkboard.There’s just one way to fix this, and that’s why at the end of the day, he stops at Arthur’s desk on his way out.





	Out of the System

**Author's Note:**

> [the-sleepy-detective](https://the-sleepy-detective.tumblr.com) created **[](https://the-sleepy-detective.tumblr.com/post/186675377102/inception-big-bang-2019-for-toyhto-art-by)**[this absolutely amazing art](https://the-sleepy-detective.tumblr.com/post/186675377102/inception-big-bang-2019-for-toyhto-art-by) for this story! Go see it and admire our pining boys!
> 
> Also, [echokomazgeda](http://echokomazgeda.tumblr.com) did some betaing for this story in an impossibly tight timeline, thank you and sorry and all the remaining mistakes and questionable choices are definitely my own!
> 
> I'm rating this Explicit just in case, can't really tell anymore where the lines are drawn!

Oh, bloody _hell._  
  
It’s not like Eames has never had a crush before. It’s just that normally having a crush on someone isn’t so bloody annoying. Normally, he can fucking _think. _Normally, he doesn’t realise that for the last five minutes he’s been staring at someone’s ass while they’ve been writing _very important figures _on the chalkboard.  
  
There’s just one way to fix this, and that’s why at the end of the day, he stops at Arthur’s desk on his way out.  
  
“We’ve got to get it out of our systems.”  
  
Arthur frowns at him and it' very distracting. Fucking hell, he’s got it bad this time. “Excuse me?”  
  
“This,” he says and waves a hand in between them, “this thing. We’ve got to get it out.”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?” Arthur asks, straightening his shoulders, his very nice, lean shoulders Eames has been staring at for the five days they’ve been on this job.  
  
Eames clears his throat. “Arthur.”  
  
Arthur tilts his head to the side. “Eames.”  
  
“Arthur -"Arthur can’t expect him to say it aloud, can he? They aren’t even alone. Julia, the architect, is sitting in a chair less than five feet away. But Arthur’s still staring at him as if he doesn’t know what Eames is talking about. Then again, perhaps Arthur really doesn’t have a clue. That’s certainly possible. Ever since the Fischer job Eames has been keeping track of Arthur. Subtly of course, the way one does with friends and associates, and he’s never heard of Arthur being with anyone. Maybe Arthur is very subtle about it. Or maybe he just doesn’t realise when someone can’t figure out how to stop staring at their ass. “Are you done here? I thought we could stop by a pub.”  
  
“A pub,” Arthur says slowly, as if the concept is familiar but a bit controversial. “Why?”  
  
“I thought I could buy you a drink,” Eames says. What he really thinks is that he could blow Arthur off in his hotel room and be done with this nonsense of not being able to think about anything else. But Arthur looks shocked enough about the drink.  
  
Arthur clears his throat. If Arthur’s going to ask why, Eames will goddamn tell him why, yeah, that’s exactly what he’ll do. He’ll tell Arthur that the man’s been driving him crazy for the past five days, wearing his ridiculous suit, tugging at his collar, and sometimes brushing his nose with the back of his hand. Arthur’s has such slender wrists.  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says but keeps frowning. “Now?”  
  
“Well,” Eames says and swallows down the _I’ve been waiting for fucking five days_, “yeah, why not.”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says and cleans up his desk in a few effortless movements. Amazing. Arthur’s amazing, and it’s not like that’s news to Eames, is it? He’s always liked Arthur, ever since they first met years ago and he thought Arthur was stiff as a stick and couldn’t recognise the art of humour even if someone, well, usually Eames himself, was rubbing it in his face. It was a marvel, to be around someone who was goddamn serious all the time. Later, he found out that Arthur, besides being the best point man in their line of business, _does _know humour, only he uses it sparingly unlike Eames himself. And later still, he realised they were kind of friends, he and Arthur.  
  
He’s been flirting with Arthur since the beginning._ Naturally._ That’s often the best way to get along with people, wear down their defences. But he seldom really means it, and he has no doubts that Arthur knows this.  
  
Only now everything’s changed. Now, they’re working at this straightforward job in Stockholm and it’s the first time they’ve seen each other for half a year at least. To be honest, Eames might not have taken this job if it wasn’t for Arthur. He was bloody excited to do a job with Arthur again, alright?  
  
When he’d walked to the warehouse five days ago, he’d first said hello to Malin, the extractor, then Julia, the architect, and Simo, the chemist. Then he’d turned to Arthur who was already at his desk, looking busy and serious and very uptight. That’s when it happened. The crush. Just like that. Arthur was looking like he always had, all frowning and serious and clearly impatient for Eames to come greet him so that he could get back to work, only now Arthur being frowning and serious and impatient was making Eames’ heart beat uncomfortably fast.  
  
Eames walked over to Arthur. He wanted to hug Arthur, or kiss Arthur, or push his fingers into Arthur’s impossibly well-behaving hair. On the other hand, he wanted to stay away from Arthur, because his hands were all sweaty and his mind was kind of going numb, and surely Arthur would notice and pick at him ruthlessly about it.  
  
“Hi,” Arthur said, patting Eames on the arm before returning to work. Eames’ arm was tingling afterwards.  
  
Pathetic, that’s what this is. Just pathetic.  
  
Maybe Arthur’s done something with his hair. Or eyebrows. Eames takes a subtle glance at Arthur now that they’re on the pavement, waiting for a taxi. There must be something that’s Arthur’s doing differently, something Eames hasn’t managed to figure out yet.  
  
“Perhaps we should just give up,” Arthur says. It’s snowing and there’s snow getting stuck in Arthur’s hair and on the shoulders of his long black coat. “I have to wake up early tomorrow anyway.”  
  
“No, no,” Eames says. “We could walk. There’s got to be a pub here somewhere.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says with a sigh, but Eames starts walking before Arthur can finish. After a few seconds, there’s the telltale sound of snow crunching underfoot, as Arthur follows him._ Thank god._  
  
“So, what did you mean by that?” Arthur asks after a few seconds, falling into step alongside him. He’s close enough that their arms brush every other step.  
  
“What? That there’s got to be a pub? I know we aren’t exactly in the city centre, but you’d think –“  
  
“No,” Arthur says, brushing snow out of his hair. That’s goddamn sweet. “The other thing. You said we need to get something out of our systems.”  
  
_Oh_. “Well, isn’t it obvious?” Surely it should be. Arthur is the point man, for fuck’s sake. He should be able to tell when someone on the team is having an uncontrollable crush on him. Eames swallows and glances towards Arthur, even though it takes some courage to do so. Arthur’s just staring back at him, wrinkles on his forehead and his mouth set in a firm line. “Really?”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, “just tell me.”  
  
“Okay.” He was going to have to tell Arthur at some point, anyway. It doesn’t matter. Surely Arthur’s not going to be too surprised. Arthur’s probably going to argue about it a little, and then they can go to Eames’ hotel room and be done with it. Eames will be able to think again, and everything will be great. Eames isn’t going to have a goddamn heart attack every time Arthur looks at him with those dark mysterious eyes. Oh, fucking hell, his heart is speeding. “Anyway, did you change something? Did you do something with your hair? Because I think it’s shorter. Or

longer. I can’t really tell. Oh, there’s a pub, can you see? We should go there.”  
  
“It doesn’t look very nice,” Arthur says, glancing at the pub in between the pizzeria and the hairdresser.  
  
“Don’t be an idiot, it’s fine,” Eames says and walks to the pub.  
  
The pub is not very nice. The good thing, though, is that it’s very small, so when Eames sits at the counter, Arthur sits so close to him that he can smell Arthur’s cologne, or shampoo, or whatever it is. He takes a beer and Arthur takes a glass of wine and there they sit, in a crappy pub somewhere in Stockholm suburb, outside it’s freezing and snowing, and Arthur drinks his wine slowly, as if he’s in no rush. It’s almost like they’re on a date or something. Eames sets his ankle so that it brushes against the fabric of Arthur’s trousers. _Fuck, _this isn’t going to help him to get rid of his crush.  
  
Sex would, though. That’s the general idea. They’ll have sex and then everything will go back to normal. He’s got to convince Arthur about that first, though.  
  
Perhaps he should try flirting. But the thing is, he’s been doing that for years. How the hell would Arthur know that this time Eames is actually trying to get to sleep with him?  
  
“So, I thought,” Eames says and drinks of his beer, “I mean, about what I said earlier, about getting it out of the system, I thought perhaps we could, you know,” and then he drinks of his beer again.  
  
“We could what?” Arthur asks after a few seconds. There’s a Swedish pop song playing on the radio.  
  
“I don’t know,” Eames says, even though he knows, he fucking _knows. _He should’ve stuck with flirting, no matter that it would’ve taken him ten years to get Arthur to bed with that tactic. He clears his throat again and again and it doesn’t help at all. He’s _brilliant_ at flirting. He can’t do it like this, he can’t just _say _to Arthur what he’s thinking. His heart is beating uncomfortably fast, and he’s got to be frank enough that Arthur will understand he’s serious, but not too serious, it’s not like he’s bloody proposing to Arthur or anything, Arthur’s got to get that, and also he needs to be subtle enough that he doesn’t scare Arthur away.  
  
“Sex,” he says. His face feels warm. He glances at Arthur, who looks like he’s trying to figure out what Eames means by that. “I mean, I think we should have sex. That’s what I think. With each other.”  
  
Arthur straightens in his chair. “Sex?”  
  
“Yeah. You know, in bed.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Arthur says and frowns at his glass of wine. “And why, exactly, do you think we should have sex?”  
  
Eames takes a deep breath. The two other people in the pub seem to have developed an argument about cross-country skiing, or perhaps his Swedish is rustier than he thought. Arthur’s not looking at him, and he tries not to look at Arthur. Maybe he should just be honest. They’re friends, he and Arthur. Arthur will understand. “The thing is, I’ve been kind of staring at your ass.”  
  
“You’ve been staring at my ass,” Arthur says flatly, putting his elbows on the table. “Alright.”  
  
“Yeah. I’m sorry about that, really. I hope it hasn’t been bothering you.”  
  
“No, I…” Arthur blinks. He looks a bit disoriented. “I haven’t noticed.”  
  
“Oh, great,” Eames says. “Good. So, you haven’t been paying attention to me. Marvellous. Anyway, staring at your ass constantly is getting me distracted. I can’t concentrate on the job.”  
  
Arthur glances at him briefly, drinks the rest of his wine and asks the bartender for another. “So, you’re telling me that you’ve been distracted because you’ve been staring at my ass.”  
  
“Yeah. Exactly. I don’t know why, I mean, I don’t know why _now_. It’s not like it’s changed.”  
  
“No, I think not.”  
  
“And I mean, it’s just not your ass, it’s everything in you,” Eames says, drinking more beer. Well, this is going well. Arthur seems to understand what he’s saying. “You look exactly the same than before but for some reason, I really want to fuck you now.” Oh, well, that sounded a bit bold. “I mean, have sex with you. Respectfully. I have a few ideas about what we could do, depending on what you like.”  
  
“Everything in me,” Arthur says in a quiet voice.  
  
“Yeah, exactly. Like, obviously you look great. I’ve always known that. And you are, well, you’re a pain in the ass, you know, in the best possible way,_ obviously. _I’ve always liked you. But I never had this kind of a crush on you before. I don’t know why now. Perhaps it’s just that we hadn’t seen each other for a while.  
  
“Five months and twenty-one days,” Arthur says. “Did you say you have a crush on me?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s terrible,” Eames says, “just terrible. I can’t focus on anything. _Thank god_ this job is pretty straight-forward, because otherwise I would’ve messed it up already.”  
  
“That would’ve been inconvenient,” Arthur says. He sounds thoughtful. Well, he should be, shouldn’t he? He’s the point man and Eames is telling him that he has trouble doing his job.  
  
“Yeah, exactly. So, I thought, better to get it out of my system.”  
  
“Out of your system,” Arthur says in blank voice.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says and finishes his beer. Arthur’s drank two glasses of wine already, which seems pretty quick, but then again, who is he to blame? Perhaps Arthur’s stressed about the job. “What do you think?”  
  
Arthur stares at the empty wine glass on the table, then at Eames, then at the glass again. “Fine.”  
  
Eames breathes in and out. His heart is beating faster than he realised. “Fine?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, pushes the chair back and stands up, straightening the hem of his coat. He doesn’t exactly look Eames in the eyes.  
  
“_Really?_” Eames says almost in a whisper, only his voice comes out oddly hoarse now.  
  
Now Arthur glances at him. He looks deadly serious. Good. Everything’s still normal in between them. “You just asked. Didn’t you mean it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says quickly, “of course I meant it, I just…”  
  
“You didn’t think I’d agree.”  
  
“It’s not that,” he says, although it probably is. Arthur _never _does what he’s told, not without persuasion. “I just wanted to make sure that you’re… alright.”  
  
“I’m alright,” Arthur says firmly and starts walking towards the door. After a few steps, he glances over his shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”  
  
Eames stands up and follows him. It turns out that he has a bit of trouble keeping up with Arthur’s pace as they walk. Maybe Arthur’s in a hurry to have sex with him and get rid of him and get some sleep and get to work tomorrow morning. That’s actually probable. And there’s no reason for Eames to be worried, of course not, or nervous, because there’s nothing to be nervous about. Arthur _agreed_, and Eames is almost certain that Arthur knows what they were talking about. Almost. Besides, they’re both adults. It’s not like either of them is going to have sex for the first time. And, they’re friends. They know each other. If the sex is awkward, they’ll laugh at it later, together, and Eames is going to get rid of his goddamn crush, and everything will be back to normal.  
  
Arthur manages to get them a taxi somehow. Eames climbs onto the backseat after him and then sits down, until Arthur says at the same voice he uses in a job when he’s trying to be efficient, “your place or mine?”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, “of course. Mine.”  
  
“Would you please give the driver the address?” Arthur asks, takes his phone and starts doing something with it. Eames gives the driver the address. The cold light reflects on Arthur’s face and makes him seem even more serious, and isn’t it a bit odd that Arthur’s so _serious_ about this, really? Arthur should be fucking excited to get to sleep with Eames, shouldn’t he? Eames has always thought he’d be Arthur’s type. Of course, he doesn’t have a clue what Arthur’s type is, but surely it’d be something like him, a handsome broad-shouldered man with nice muscles and a great sense of humour and a British accent and a manly voice that could whisper things to Arthur’s ear while they’d be fucking, things like, well, probably like _Arthur, Arthur, you smell so good, you look so good, your eyes are gorgeous, what did you do with your hair, why do you always frown like that -_  
  
He shakes his head and tries to cross his legs, but it’s a bit tricky. So, he just places his hands tactically in his lap.  
  
Maybe Arthur wants to fuck Eames. Arthur would be brilliant it, utterly serious, like he’s got a job to do and he’s damn well going to do it, and maybe he’d start talking about the job before he had even let Eames finish. Or maybe Arthur wants Eames to fuck him. Arthur would be so goddamn impatient about it, his voice unravelled and desperate with need, hoarse even, and not composed at all, and still he’d snap at Eames, lying in Eames’ hotel bed on his back, his knees spread, his skin sweaty, his ankles tangled behind Eames’ back, urging him to fuck harder, but Eames would take his time, all the time in the world, he’d make Arthur go desperate with want, he’d make Arthur _beg _until finally he’d -  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, only his voice isn’t desperate at all, it’s almost bored. Eames glances at him and then at his own lap. Well, it’s quite obvious that he’s already hard, but then again, they’re on their way to Eames’ hotel room to have sex. He’s appreciating the moment, even if Arthur isn’t.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, “I was thinking about –“  
  
“Please, don’t,” Arthur cuts in and takes a somewhat shaky breath.  
  
Eames bites his lip. They’re just a few blocks away now. He should just sit here, quietly, and let Arthur be serious and uptight in silence. “What’re you thinking about? Work?”  
  
“Not here, Eames.”  
  
“Sorry, sorry.” He looks through the window. “It’s not like you’re doing this just to humour me, though.”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“Because you can say no.”  
  
“Of course I can say no,” Arthur says, watching his phone.  
  
“It’s just that you seem a little, I don’t know, bored.”  
  
“I can assure you,” Arthur says without looking at him, “that I’m not bored.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says. Arthur stares at the phone as if it might disappear the second he blinks. Eames is wondering if he could find a nice way to say that perhaps Arthur could show some anticipation about this, just to be polite, for example smile a little, when the taxi stops. Arthur tries to pay but Eames stops him. First he thinks Arthur’s going to argue about paying, but then Arthur gets out of the car, silent, frowning and sulking or so it seems, only there’s absolutely no reason for Arthur to be sulking. He knows he’s going to get to have sex with Eames in ten minutes. Eames pays the driver and then follows Arthur. It’s freezing outside.  
  
“Arthur,” he says, because Arthur’s just standing there, not walking to the hotel. Then he swallows. “It’s bloody cold in here.”  
  
“Yeah, it is,” Arthur says and follows him inside. They take the lift. He catches Arthur’s eyes through the mirror, but Arthur draws his gaze away. Bloody hell. This is supposed to be helping, not making things more awkward.  
  
“Arthur,” he says when they step out of the lift, and then again when they’re in his hotel room, the door locked behind them, and Arthur’s taking his coat off, “Arthur, come on. You don’t need to do this for me. I just thought that maybe you’d want to –“  
  
“Do you really think,” Arthur says, turning to Eames and finally looking at him in the eyes again, “that I’d fuck you just because you asked? So that you could concentrate on a job? That I’d do it just to be nice to you?”  
  
“No,” Eames says. Of course not. It’d be absurd.  
  
“Well, then.”  
  
“I thought I’d be your type.”  
  
“Oh, fucking _hell_,” Arthur says. His voice sounds tight.  
  
“Well, I don’t have a fucking clue what kind of people you usually fuck,” Eames says, taking the bottle of whiskey he has on a nightstand and pouring it in two plastic cups. He gives one to Arthur. “Excuse me if I supposed that perhaps you like men like me.”  
  
“I don’t have a _type_,” Arthur says. He doesn’t sound angry but rather careful, as if he’s trying not to slip. He doesn’t drink of his whiskey until Eames does. “And anyway, it’d be fucking arrogant for you to think that if I had one, it’d be _you._”  
  
“Sorry,” Eames says. “At least tell me you’re gay.”  
  
“I’m gay,” Arthur says, taking a deep breath. “Why the fuck did you even ask if you weren’t sure that I’m gay?”  
  
“I was sure. I just wanted to… check.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, licks his lips and places his hands on his hips. He looks _so _good, and he’s _right there, _and it’s impossible to think that Eames could just go to him, kiss him, undress him, have sex with him, and then be rid of him in the morning. It’s just impossible. He wants to fuck Arthur so badly but he can’t move when Arthur stares at him like that. “Eames,” Arthur says again, looking at Eames as if he doesn’t know where to go from there.  
  
“Listen,” Eames says, pointing at Arthur with his cup of whiskey, “_listen_, if you don’t like me, I think we should just, I don’t know, drink and talk. I can deal with my crush just fine on my own. I’m going to spend every night wanking at the thought of you writing on that chalkboard in your fancy trousers, but then again, you don’t need to know about that, do you? It’ll be fine. Drink your whiskey and we’ll see tomorrow at the warehouse.”  
  
“I’m already here,” Arthur says, finishing his whiskey and then starting to unbutton his shirt, which is just crazy, just crazy, Arthur’s lean long fingers opening the buttons for Eames.  
  
“But if you don’t want to –“  
  
“You’re right,” Arthur says, taking his shirt off and folding it on the chair. “For once, you’re actually right. You are kind of my type.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“I like the…” And Arthur waves his hand vaguely at Eames’ direction.  
  
“What, exactly?”  
  
“I don’t know. The whole…”  
  
Fucking hell. Eames takes a step forward, but Arthur unzips his trousers, and there’s no way he can just walk to Arthur like this, not when Arthur’s undressing and looking so focused, only his moves are a bit tense, which is worrying, but then again, Arthur’s always tense, that’s how he is, and Eames is going to make him relax in a few minutes, isn’t he, isn’t it the whole idea? He’ll drive Arthur crazy first and then he’ll let Arthur come and fall limp on the bed or wherever they’re doing it, and Arthur will probably kiss him and whisper incoherent things to his ear, like, _Eames, you felt so good, I’ve been fantasising about this since I met you but I never could imagine that you felt so good -_  
  
Eames clears his throat. Where were they? Oh, right. “Sorry. You were saying that you like the whole…”  
  
Arthur gives him a sharp glance, pushes his trousers down at his ankles and steps out of them. “Why aren’t you undressing?”  
  
“The whole what?”  
  
“The whole thing,” Arthur snaps, his hands on his hips again, as if he’s saying that he _expected more of Eames, professionally, this is a demanding job and Eames needs to concentrate on the figures on the chalkboard,_ only this time, he’s wearing nothing but pants.  
  
“The whole thing…?”  
  
“You,” Arthur says, “the whole stupid thing of you being, I don’t know, always in my way, with your broad shoulders and stupid clothes and all that.”  
  
Eames realises that he’s grinning. “You like me.”  
  
“Of course I like you,” Arthur says, “why the fuck do you think I’ve put up with you all these years?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, but I meant, you_ like _me.”  
  
“Can you just fucking undress already?”  
  
Eames starts by pulling his socks off. “I’m your _type._”  
  
“And if you could stop looking so smug for a goddamn second, that would really help.”  
  
“Help with what?” Eames asks, getting rid of his shirt and trousers as quickly as he can and almost tumbles on them. “With getting you turned on? I think I have a couple of tricks in my sleeve for that.”  
  
“I don’t know how I can stand you,” Arthur says, crossing his arms on his bare chest, “I really don’t, maybe it’s just that I’ve known you for such a long time that I’ve grown used to it.”  
  
“You can’t live without me,” Eames says, pushing his pants down to his ankles. Then he realises Arthur’s still wearing his. “Is this okay? Or did you want to talk a little more?”  
  
Arthur undresses his pants and fucking_ folds _them and places them on the chair. Eames tries not to stare. Well, he would try, but his head is a little heavy with the beer and whiskey and the exhaustion of having had this goddamn crush for _five days. _And he’s never seen Arthur’s cock, not until now, and he’s always been a bit curious, naturally, because why wouldn’t he be? He’s seen pretty much everything else about Arthur. And now Arthur is right there, his cheeks and neck turning pink, and the rest of him, _the rest of him_, Eames likes it all, obviously, and he _loves _the way Arthur stands still even though he _knows _Eames is staring at his half-hard cock.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, and it sounds like he’s asking for something but doesn’t know what.  
  
Well, what the hell then.  
  
Eames walks to him and kisses him on the mouth. It’s a nice mouth. He’s always liked that mouth. Arthur puts his hands on Eames’s shoulders and kisses back almost a bit clumsily, almost like in a rush, even though there’s no rush and Arthur must know that. They have the whole night, or a few hours, because they’ve got to sleep, don’t they? But not yet. _Not yet._ Eames pushes his thigh in between Arthur’s and walks him backwards until Arthur’s knees hit the edge of the bed, but Arthur doesn’t climb onto the bed, no, he’s probably too busy kissing Eames to figure out that’d be a clever thing to do now. Eames pushes a little. Arthur gives out a sound that goes straight to his cock, almost a growl, as if Arthur’s been waiting for him, just for him, for a long time, maybe staring at _his _ass, maybe wanking at the thought of him at nights, longing for the moment when they do this for real, when he pushes Arthur to the bed for real, when he -  
  
Only Arthur doesn’t let himself be pushed to the bed. Instead, he grabs Eames’ wrists and squeezes tightly enough that Eames stops kissing him for a second and pulls back. Goddamn. Arthur looks like he’s just been thoroughly kissed, and also he’s fully hard now, and leaking, and staring at Eames with his eyes wide.  
  
“I’m not going to -,” Arthur says and clears his throat. “Listen, I’m not… You can’t fuck me. That’s not my thing.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says. Arthur’s _gorgeous_, all naked and tense and staring and, _and_ then he realises what Arthur said. “_Oh._ You don’t want me to fuck you.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, his eyes flicking back and forth on Eames’ face, “no, I don’t. I don’t do that.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says and kisses Arthur on the mouth. “Want to fuck me?”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, holding him by his shoulders, “really? Just like that? I’ve known you for fucking _years._”  
  
“If you don’t, well, I could blow you,” he says and keeps kissing Arthur, “or perhaps a hand job, or if you have something else in your mind, just tell me, I don’t usually try anything new but I might consider, just for you, darling, I might –“  
  
“I want to fuck you,” Arthur says in a surprisingly firm voice. He has both hands in Eames’ hair now and he’s pushing his cock against Eames’ hips.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “yeah, of course, of course you want. I’ll just, the bed –“  
  
“Not in the bed,” Arthur says, and suddenly Arthur’s wrapping his fingers around Eames’ cock, and squeezing, just a little too tight, just a little, and Eames tries to breathe in but it doesn’t go well. This is a bit too good. “Not in the bed,” Arthur says again, his voice breathless but stubborn. Eames closes his eyes when Arthur cups the side of his face. “Eames. _Eames._ Alright?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Sorry,” Arthur says, kisses the corner of his mouth and does a few tugs with his hand, and Eames’ knees don’t feel steady at all, not at all, and then Arthur gets to the rhythm, “it’s just that I always thought, I don’t know, I thought that perhaps on a job, in a rush, and not in a bed because there wouldn’t be one, and you’d be just, I don’t know, bending down for me against the wall or something. Sorry. But I have condoms. In my wallet. Did you have –“  
  
“Lube,” Eames says, his eyes still closed and his voice starting to crack, “in my bag.”  
  
Arthur lets go of him.  
  
“Bloody hell,” he says, grabbing his knees and trying to breathe, oh, shit, _shit, shit,_ it’s possible he’s not going to last long enough for Arthur to fuck him, he’s been pining for Arthur for _five days_, non-stop, and to _finally_ have Arthur… to _finally _have Arthur touching him… He blinks and then watches Arthur as Arthur goes through his bag and eventually finds the lube, then goes to his own wallet and takes the condoms. Arthur probably bought the most dull-looking package of condoms he could find. It’d be just like Arthur, the goddamn idiot. The brilliant fucking bastard. The most impossible, serious, _beautiful _man Eames has ever worked with.  
  
Eames tries to breathe steadily but it’s difficult with Arthur being _right there._ Arthur’s not even looking at him, and he’s certain Arthur’s doing it on purpose. The bastard’s ignoring Eames on purpose because he knows Eames is going crazy here, crazy watching him tug his own cock a few times after the condom is on, and oh. _Oh. _They’re really going to do this, aren’t they? Arthur walks over to Eames and places his hand on Eames’ shoulder as if to hold him down, _what a thought_, and leans closer, and kisses him, and oh, fucking _hell. _It’s impossible to think about anything when Arthur’s kissing him. Just impossible.  
  
When Arthur pushes Eames by the shoulders to make him lean against the wall, he pretty much stops thinking. Arthur’s hands are warm and heavy on his back, moving back and forth before one of them stays behind Eames’ shoulder blades and one comes lower. Eames can feel the tip of Arthur’s finger, slow and careful. Of course, Arthur does this perfectly, just like Arthur does _everything. _Eames grits his teeth together and tries to stay still for Arthur, only his knees are trembling, but it’s not like he can stop them. It’s crazy that those are _Arthur’s fingers _inside Eames, just crazy. Arthur’s lovely fingers, trying to hit Eames at the right spot, and he can fucking _feel _the frustration in Arthur when Arthur can’t find it. Arthur’s probably frowning, the goddamn idiot who’s always got to get it right, but it’s okay, Eames wants to say that it’s okay, but he can’t catch his breath.  
  
“It’s,” he says and breathes in, “okay.”  
  
Arthur hushes at him. He’s going to say something about that, about how concentrated Arthur seems, how amazing it is, how it’s alright, everything’s alright, and then he’s going to tell Arthur to fuck him already. He just can’t find his voice, and then Arthur’s pulling his fingers away and Eames forgets what he was going to say.  
  
“Arthur –“  
  
“Just a moment,” Arthur says. He sounds like he’s frowning. He grabs Eames’ wrists and places his palms against the wall so that he’s leaning against it, bent down, not bothering to hold his head up. If Arthur touches him again, he won’t be able to fucking stand on his own two feet anymore, his arms are trembling, and then Arthur’s hands are on the low of his back, on his… trying to… and, _oh_…  
  
“You’re alright,” Arthur says, his mouth on Eames’ back, his cock pushed all the way in. It sounds like a question, though.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Good,” Arthur says, pulls out and pushes back in.  
  
“Arthur,” he says, and it seems Arthur is listening because he does it all over again, out and in, out and in, his other hand still on Eames’ cock. Eames breathes the best he can. “Arthur. Arthur, I…” But what was he going to say, anyway? “Arthur. _Arthur_ –“  
  
“Come on,” Arthur says.  
  
Slow. Eames thought Arthur would want it slow. “Slow –“  
  
“You’re alright,” Arthur says, his fingers tightening on Eames’ cock, his rhythm fastening.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, because he is, he _is,_ he’s just going to come quite soon, almost any minute, he thought Arthur would want it slow, he doesn’t want it to end, what if this is it, what if Arthur leaves, what if this is the only time, what if Arthur never wants to fuck him again, what if Arthur never kisses him again, and he wants… he likes… he loves…  
  
“Just,” Arthur says, breathless, “just – fucking – come – for me.”  
  
Eames -  
  
Kind of -  
  
Loves -  
  
His knees give out the second he comes. Arthur pulls back but crumbles onto the floor with him, the flat on his palm on Eames’ back, almost reassuring. Eames leans his forehead against the wall. He should breathe. He should just breathe. But then Arthur grunts behind his back and he remembers that he’s not supposed to be just breathing, not really, not when Arthur hasn’t come yet. He turns to Arthur, but Arthur already has his hand on his own cock and is coming on his thighs, on Eames’ legs, on the carpet. Bloody hell. The smell. The smell of him and Arthur. And the way Arthur lies down on the floor, looking exhausted.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says and clears his throat.  
  
“Just give me a minute.”  
  
He sits down on the carpet next to Arthur, who has his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling. He opens his mouth and then closes it again. He’s thought for a long time that he knows Arthur. Well, obviously not all the details, like Arthur’s surname. But he _knows_ Arthur. He knows what Arthur thinks and wants and misses and he knows how Arthur reacts to people and when Arthur’s having good time and when he’s just faking it to be polite, and he knows when Arthur’s actually having good time but very convincingly trying to seem like he doesn’t. He knows when Arthur’s concerned and when Arthur’s happy, even though those looks are almost exactly the same on Arthur’s face.  
  
But this…  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath, eyes still closed. “I probably shouldn’t have.”  
  
“What? You were brilliant. You were –“  
  
“Sorry,” Arthur says, opens his eyes and stands up without looking at Eames. He walks to the chair on which his clothes are, neatly folded, and starts dressing, only his movements are sharp as if he’s following a protocol, the bloody idiot. Eames’ chest feels oddly tight. “I got a bit carried away. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, “I loved it.”  
  
Arthur glances at him, turns away and buttons his shirt all the way up. Eames stands up slowly. There’s cum on his thighs and on his stomach, stuck on the coarse hair, and he feels barer than a moment ago, when Arthur was fucking him.  
  
“You don’t need to go right away,” he says. “We could, I don’t know, discuss the job. Or anything.”  
  
“I need to go,” Arthur says. He’s got his shoes on already. He’s just about to leave. And isn’t that exactly what Eames asked, really? Isn’t it? He asked Arthur to help him get the crush out of his system, didn’t he? He shouldn’t be feeling this bloody empty about the thought of Arthur walking through that door.  
  
“But you’re alright.”  
  
“Of course,” Arthur says and then stops. He’s standing at the door already. He pulls his shoulders back and looks at Eames. “I’m sorry. I just… I guess I wasn’t expecting it to be like that.”  
  
“You were brilliant,” Eames says in a quiet voice. “Don’t you dare to think you were out of the line somehow.”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
“That was the best sex I’ve had since… I don’t even know.”  
  
Arthur laughs but there’s a nervous edge in it.  
  
“You could still stay for a bit. I have whiskey.”  
  
Arthur shakes his head. “No, I need to…” But he doesn’t finish it.  
  
“Okay,” Eames says, crossing his arms and trying to look like he’s not bitter that Arthur is just going to leave after fucking him. He’s got no bloody right to be bitter. This is what he _wanted_. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, “see you.”  
  
“Good night,” Eames says, and Arthur walks through the door and closes it.  
  
  
  
**  
  
  
  
“It didn’t work.”  
  
Arthur blinks at him. “What?”  
  
“What we did yesterday,” Eames says, quietly enough that the rest of the team won’t probably hear. “It didn’t work.”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth and then closes it.  
  
“I just thought you should know,” Eames says, “it didn’t work and I’m still distracted and I need to figure something out.”  
  
He can feel Arthur’s eyes on his back when he walks through the room, but then again, he’s always been kind of an optimist. He says to Malin something about how nice the weather is and walks through the door, to the corridor and to the bathroom in the end of it. There’s at least a year’s worth of dust covering the mirrors. He leans his back against the sink and waits for two and a half minutes, until he can hear Arthur’s footsteps on the corridor.  
  
“We can’t talk about it here,” Arthur says in a low voice, stepping to the bathroom and closing the door behind him.  
  
“I still have a crush on you,” Eames says. “I stared at you the whole morning.”  
  
“Fucking hell, Eames,” Arthur says, sounding out of breath, “that’s just… that’s _your problem._”  
  
“Yeah, of course,” Eames says, “but the thing is, I don’t have crushes that are this bad. I don’t know how to deal with this. It’s got to stop. Earlier, when you stopped at my desk to harass me about the fucking schedule, you smelled so good that my brain just stopped functioning.”  
  
“That explains a lot,” Arthur says. He sounds angry but there’s something else, too. Maybe he’s pitying Eames. Yeah, that could be it. How bloody terrible, to be pitied by Arthur. “Eames, you need to pull yourself together.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says and clears his throat. “Perhaps if we had sex again –“  
  
“Are you out of your fucking _mind?_”  
  
“No. Of course not. But, listen, we should give it another go.”  
  
“It doesn’t really work like that,” Arthur says, shifting his weight from one foot to another, and isn’t that weird, because Arthur never does anything like that. Arthur _knows _it makes him look nervous and Arthur can’t bear to look nervous. Eames knows that because he knows _Arthur._ “It doesn’t work like that, Eames, not at all, you’ve got to know that.”  
  
“I think it does.”  
  
“No, it _doesn’t_,” Arthur says, looking at Eames like he wants to punch him in the face. Well, that’s a bit worrying. “You don’t get over someone you like by having sex with them.”  
  
“Why not? It’s done then.”  
  
“You can’t -,” Arthur stops, takes a deep breath, points his finger at Eames, and clears his throat. “You won’t –“  
  
“I liked it,” Eames says, when it seems that Arthur’s not going to finish whatever he was going to say. “The sex. I liked it. I _loved _it. And you seemed quite happy about it, too, until the end. Then you didn’t seem very happy. But I don’t know why. We both came.”  
  
“Oh, bloody hell,” Arthur says.  
  
“There’s no need to be rude, darling,” Eames says, taking a step closer. Arthur takes a step back so that he’s leaning against the bathroom door. He looks so good. He looks like he always does and not at all like he fucked the hell out of Eames just last night. Eames wants to kiss him, but he’s not going to try now, not when Arthur’s got that look in his eyes. Arthur would punch him in the face or kick him in the groin. Or both. “Let’s try again. This night.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says. He sounds tired and like he really needs to relax a little.  
  
“We could go out for a dinner,” Eames says. “I’ll find a restaurant you’ll like. I bet I know what you like. And later, we could go to your hotel or mine and, I don’t know, do the same than yesterday. Or something else. Whatever you like.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, “you could just stare at my ass. I don’t mind.”  
  
“It’s driving me mad.”  
  
“You aren’t going to get it fixed like that,” Arthur says and smiles somewhat tightly. “But I bet you’ll get over your crush on me in a day or two anyway. When we finish the job, at least.”  
  
“I can’t wait that long,” Eames says, and then, when Arthur only stares at him, he adds, “this evening, we’re going to go out. I’ll pick the restaurant. Okay?”  
  
Arthur stays quiet so long that Eames begins to think he might say no. Finally, he takes a deep breath. “Okay.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s almost time to quit for the day, when Malin stops at Eames’ desk. “What was that about?”  
  
“What?” Eames asks. He’s going over the notes of the mark’s daughter he’s supposed to forge in a week. It should be quite simple. Nothing to stress about. If only he could concentrate -  
  
“You and Arthur.”  
  
_Oh._ He blinks and then gives Malin his best smile. “What do you mean, me and Arthur?”  
  
“If you’re having some kind of a disagreement, I think I should know about it,” Malin says. Her voice isn’t unkind, just firm.  
  
Eames glances at Arthur, who’s bent over his desk, clearly trying to acquire pain in his neck. “It’s nothing. I mean, it’s got nothing to do with the job. And it’s not really a_ disagreement._”  
  
“Tell me,” Malin says.  
  
“I don’t think I will,” Eames says, “it’s quite personal.”  
  
Malin eyes him for a few seconds. “I didn’t know you were a couple. If I had known, I wouldn’t have agreed when Arthur said he wanted you on this job. It’s not a good idea to work with your spouse.”  
  
“We aren’t,” he says, “we definitely aren’t. A couple, I mean.” He tries a laugh, but it sounds like he’s overdoing it. Shit. And Arthur’s throwing glances at them, now. Quite subtle, though, so maybe Malin won’t notice. Eames and Arthur, a couple? What an absurd thought.  
  
“Are you sure?” Malin asks.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “of course, definitely. We’d never… We aren’t together. Like that. We’re just friends. Nothing romantical. Nothing sexual. Of course, we’re both good-looking men, so it’s like we could completely avoid, you know, sexual tension, but besides that… there’s nothing going on in between us. Nothing at all.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says, leaning back in his chair, “now, I’ve got some work to do. I’m glad we had this talk.”  
  
“Sure,” Malin says. “Okay. Just… if there’s a problem, please, sort it out.”  
  
“There’s no problem,” Eames says, “we never have problems, Arthur and me. Thanks for stopping by.”  
  
Malin goes back to her desk, _thank god_. Eames’ ears are ringing a little. Maybe he didn’t handle that as well as he thought, but… he and Arthur, a couple? Who in their right mind would think he and Arthur would make a good couple? Really? Well, obviously he has a huge crush on Arthur, but he only wants to be with Arthur, not to _be_ with him. In a relationship. Or whatever they are called these days. And besides, Arthur doesn’t even like him that way, even though apparently he’s Arthur’s type._ Shit_, he’s smiling, isn’t he?  
  
He dares a glance at Arthur. Arthur’s looking at him, his face all serious and concerned. Eames turns away, but he can’t get the rid of the smile.  
  
  
**  
  
  
They leave the warehouse together and take a bus to the city centre. Arthur keeps staring through the windows and Eames tries not to think about what Arthur would do, if he placed his hand on Arthur’s thigh. Nicely. But quite close to his crotch. Would Arthur jump? Probably. Maybe Arthur would snap at him but in a breathless voice. Maybe Arthur would kiss -  
  
He shakes his head and tries to concentrate. Everyone else in the bus is speaking in Swedish, which shouldn’t surprise him at all. It’s kind of nice. It’s almost as if they’re like anyone else, he and Arthur, just two normal people with normal, quite boring lives, who’re going on a date in a snowy day in freezing cold Stockholm. Or perhaps it’s not a date, not exactly, perhaps they’re together already, and later, they’re going to go home together and sit on the sofa, watching television and talking about everyday stuff that Eames never really talks with anyone, because he doesn’t have anyone to talk to, and also because he barely has _everyday stuff. _But if he had, and if he could, he’d like to talk to Arthur about it.  
  
They get out of the bus in the city centre. The restaurant is small but in a nice way, and the food is supposed to be good, or so the people in the internet say. At least Arthur doesn’t look offended, when they step in. Actually, Arthur looks like he doesn’t really know what to do, so Eames takes his coat and then puts a hand on his back when the waitress shows them their table. Arthur glances at him but doesn’t say anything.  
  
“So,” Eames says, when they’ve been glancing at the menus for a while, “do you know what you’ll have?”  
  
“Not yet,” Arthur says.  
  
“You should order wine.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
“It’s on me.”  
  
Arthur blinks and then slowly places the menu aside and stares at him. “Why?”  
  
“Because,” Eames says and clears his throat, “because I asked you. And I wanted to… I wanted to try to…”  
  
“To get it_ out of your system_,” Arthur says in a low voice. “I can’t see how this is going to help.”  
  
Eames shifts in his chair. Arthur kind of has a point. “I don’t exactly… I just thought it’d be nice.”  
  
“To have dinner with me.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“But it’s not like we’re on a date or anything,” Arthur says, picking up the menu again.  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“Only we’re going to have sex afterwards.”  
  
Eames glances around, but perhaps no one saw him startle at that.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says. He sounds tired. “I’ll pay for what I have.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“And later, we should do it in the bathroom. Here. In the restaurant. No need to take this to the hotel.”  
  
Eames opens his mouth and then closes it. He definitely doesn’t want to have sex with Arthur in the restaurant bathroom. No way. It’d be like it wouldn’t mean anything. But he can’t figure out how to say that without sounding like he expects something of Arthur, something other than friendship, trust and light bantering.  
  
“Okay,” he says, “if you want.”  
  
“I think I know what I’ll have,” Arthur says, his eyes on the menu.  
  
  
**  
  
  
What Arthur wants, apparently, is a rushed hand job in the bathroom stall. When Arthur unzips Eames’ trousers and slides his hand under the waistband of Eames’ pants, Eames asks nicely enough, if Arthur might want to get to the hotel after all. Arthur asks him kindly to shut up, so he does, unzips Arthur’s trousers somewhat clumsily and pushes them down his thighs. He wouldn’t know what to say to Arthur anyway. Arthur only agreed to have sex with Eames so that Eames could stop thinking about it all the time and instead focus on the job. Surely Eames doesn’t have the right to demand that the said sex should be, well, romantic. He closes his eyes and tries to fantasise about hotel bed and white sheets that are about to get really messy, and about Arthur, his hair dishevelled, his breathing out of rhythm, his hands clinging into Eames’ back. But every time he kisses Arthur, Arthur kisses back briefly and pulls away and fastens his pace, and soon Eames gives up with the fantasy and just focuses on getting off. Arthur comes almost silently, and his sigh sounds a bit disappointed. Eames wants to snap at him about it but can’t, because he’s coming, too.  
  
Afterwards, Arthur cleans them up with a few napkins and a tiny bottle of disinfectant he pulls from his pocket, and it feels like Arthur’s trying to wipe away both the cum and Eames. Also, the disinfectant smells of hospital.  
  
“I could come to your hotel for half an hour anyway,” Eames says, as they get out of the stall and wash their hands, “maybe give you a massage. Your shoulders seem a bit tense.”  
  
“No, thank you,” Arthur says in a voice he uses with other people, not Eames.  
  
Well, Eames thinks when he’s at the hotel again, alone in his room, staring at the spot where Arthur fucked him yesterday, the smell of the disinfectant probably killed his crush on Arthur. That’s what he was trying to accomplish, anyway.  
  
  
**  
  
  
When Eames gets to the warehouse in the morning, he’s feeling rather good about himself. He handled the situation with Arthur quite well, all things considered. Arthur was happy to get to fuck him and then to have a sloppy hand job in the bathroom. He was happy to get rid of his crush. No feelings were hurt in the process, because no feelings were involved, except of course those of friendship and trust, which should be just fine. Things will go back to the way they were before. Eames can flirt at Arthur without any real attempt at actually _doing _anything with Arthur, except of course bantering and occasional breaking into someone’s dream.  
  
He opens the door and walks in. Everyone else is already there. He smiles at Simo, says something about the marvellous weather to Julia and then gives a reassuring smile to Malin. Then, he turns to nod at Arthur.  
  
_Oh, shit._  
  
There’s nothing new about Arthur. Nothing out of ordinary. Nothing at all. Arthur’s not even looking at him, no, Arthur’s just minding his own bloody business, at which he’s really good at, to be fair. Arthur’s the best at it. Arthur’s the best at almost anything. Also, Arthur is holding a take-away cup of coffee in his hand, and Eames really, really wants to walk to him, take the cup away, grab his hand and kiss his fingers and perhaps suck them a little. After that, he wants to drag Arthur to his feet and kiss the bloody git on the mouth _properly_, not like they did yesterday, not like that at all.  
  
“Eames?” Malin says.  
  
“What?” he says, only then he realises he’s frozen on his feet, staring at Arthur, who’s very pointedly not staring back at him. “Oh. Sorry. I had a… thought.”  
  
He walks past Arthur’s desk and means to say something, but Arthur seems focused on his coffee and anyway, what would Eames say? _Thank you for the hand job yesterday, it was very fast and sterile, and by the way, I want to cover you with whipped cream and lick you clean and buy you flowers or guns or whatever you like, and I want to take you to my hotel and slowly make love to you until we both lose our minds? _Or perhaps just _it didn’t work out, I still have a crush on you? _Because yesterday, telling Arthur that was such a good idea.  
  
He should probably just wait. Everything passes. This, too, will pass.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It doesn’t pass.  
  
A week later, they have the mark sleeping in a van in an empty parking lot, while in the dream, Eames is forging his daughter, a clever twenty-three-year-old who’s having a conversation with his father about his past. As the mark tries to hide his secrets further and further down from Eames the daughter, Malin’s trying to figure out the code to his safe. It all goes down quite well. Eames is a goddamn professional even when he’s half out of his mind because he’s absurdly worried about Arthur, and can’t stop thinking about where Arthur is, and if the projections are attacking him, and what if something goes wrong, and is Arthur going to leave right after they wake up, and _oh_, Arthur almost bloody _smiled_ at him this morning.  
  
Otherwise, things haven’t been good. He’s been avoiding Arthur and Arthur’s been avoiding him and it’s been worse than for example getting lightly stabbed in a dream, although in a very different way. Once or twice, he’s tried to go back to the flirting. Perhaps if he acted like everything was normal, everything would go back to normal. But the second time he called Arthur darling and commented on Arthur’s choice of trousers, the stare Arthur gave him was so cold that he had to drop the flirting and go outside to have a cigarette. And he doesn’t even smoke anymore.  
  
When they get out of the dream, the first thing he searches for is Arthur. Well, luckily Arthur is right there, in the chair next to him, blinking but looking determinant not to talk to Eames. It’s not like Eames hasn’t been wondering what he did wrong. They had fun, didn’t they? Arthur got what he wanted and Eames almost got what he wanted, so there should be no problem, only Eames isn’t quite certain anymore about what it is that he wanted. Well, he wanted to get rid of his crush. It didn’t work out. He also wanted to have sex with Arthur and that he got, thank you very much. But he has a feeling that there was something else, too.  
  
Also, if he’s being completely honest, he doesn’t remember asking Arthur what Arthur wants. He thought he knew. Arthur wants him to concentrate on the job. Arthur wants to use his gorgeous body for sex but not involve any feelings. Arthur wants to fuck him and then move on to the next job, next country, next continent. _Surely_ that’s what Arthur wants. Eames just never asked him. And now that Arthur’s been sulking about something for a week, it seems that maybe Arthur didn’t get everything he wanted. Or maybe he just has that kind of a personality. It’s possible.  
  
But a few hours later, when they’ve returned the mark to his home and delivered the information and cleaned up the warehouse, he follows Arthur to the street. It’s goddamn snowing again. There’s snow in Arthur’s hair. Arthur certainly knows Eames is following but doesn’t do anything about it, so Eames walks behind him for a few blocks until he gets tired at walking in the snow.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
Arthur slows down but just a little.  
  
“Would you just –,” Eames begins, but Arthur clearly wouldn’t, so Eames takes a few running steps and catches him. There’s snow in his shoes now. He sets himself to walk next to Arthur, at the same pace. “Hi.”  
  
“We shouldn’t talk here,” Arthur says.  
  
“You’re angry at me and I don’t know why.”  
  
“I’m not angry,” Arthur says in an angry voice.  
  
“I just tried to -,” Eames says and breathes out. “I tried to fix it.”  
  
“I noticed.”  
  
“I really thought I would get over you if we –“  
  
Arthur glances at him. “And you didn’t?”  
  
“No,” he says, shaking his head. Damn snow is getting stuck in his lashes. “Sorry about that. But I think I can ignore it when we work together next time.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“But maybe you could, I don’t know, not look like you want to bite my head off, when I call you_ darling_,” Eames says and licks his lips, “darling.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath. He’s watching Eames from the corner of his eye. There’s something calculated about the look on his face, as if he’s estimating a risk. “Eames,” he says. Eames shifts a bit closer to him and he jumps a little. _Shit._ “I promise I won’t bite your head off.”  
  
“Really?” Eames says. He wants to grab Arthur’s shoulders and shake him until he actually says what he’s thinking, only perhaps it’s possible that Eames can’t tell the difference, after all.  
  
“But about that _darling_,” Arthur says, slowly, “I don’t know about that. It seems a bit misleading. Because we’re nothing of the sort.”  
  
“Of course not,” Eames says, quickly. “It’s just a pet name. It’s just because we’re friends and I like you and you like it when I flirt with you.”  
  
“And you want me to fuck you, occasionally,” Arthur says, looking at the cars passing them by.  
  
“Well, sure,” Eames says. He also wants to kiss Arthur, and not occasionally but rather quite often, it seems. But it’s probably safer not to say that aloud.  
  
“Maybe you should just call me Arthur,” Arthur says, “because I’m nothing more than that to you, anyway.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says. It sounds goddamn stupid, and what does it even mean, _nothing more?_ What more could Arthur be? Eames has been fucking losing his mind over Arthur for the last two weeks, and well, Arthur’s been something like his closest friend for much longer. But he doesn’t want to piss Arthur off again, not now that the job is over and he doesn’t know when he’ll see Arthur again. He’s brilliant at finding people, but Arthur’s even more brilliant at hiding, if he wants to. Eames really needs this to end in good terms.  
  
“Listen,” Arthur says, stopping on the pavement, both hands pushed into his pockets in a gesture that looks nervous. But Arthur doesn’t have anything to be nervous about, has he? _Eames _has. He’s the one with the stubborn crush. “I’m sorry I was being… that I couldn’t… You just wanted to fuck. I’m sorry it turned so weird.”  
  
“No, you don’t get to be sorry,” Eames says, “_I’m _sorry that I dragged you into it.”  
  
“It wasn’t like I didn’t want to,” Arthur says, “it’s just that…”  
  
Eames waits for a while. Finally, Arthur clears his throat.  
  
“I really should go,” Arthur says. “My plane is leaving.”  
  
_Oh._ “Of course.” Goddamn. “Where’re you going next, anyway?”  
  
“I have another job in a week,” Arthur says, eyeing him.  
  
“Great,” Eames says, trying his best smile. It probably falters a little. “Where?”  
  
Arthur stays quiet long enough that Eames is certain he’s not going to answer. They’re both getting covered in snow. Any minute now, Arthur’s going to leave and Eames is going to be bloody sad about that, and isn’t this terrible, this whole business of having a crush on someone? Just terrible.  
  
“Istanbul,” Arthur says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s not snowing in Istanbul.  
  
Eames buys a few new shirts, the kind that fit the weather. They have really nice colours. Arthur will hate them, but hopefully in the same way he hates Eames: with a lot of affection. Eames changes clothes in a restaurant’s bathroom, shaves and tries to do something about his hair, but his hair won’t have any of it. Lastly, he brushes his teeth. Then he goes to eat and walks the streets until it’s evening already. He dials the number three times until he finally calls Arthur.  
  
“Hi,” Arthur says in a somewhat thin voice.  
  
“It’s me.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I’m here,” Eames says. “So, where’re you staying?”  
  
“You couldn’t find out?” Arthur says. He sounds disappointed.  
  
“I was just trying to be polite.”  
  
There’s a short silence, then the sound of steps, of a door opening, and Arthur’s sigh. “You can come in. Just… I didn’t think I’d see anyone anymore today. I showered already.”  
  
“What, you didn’t dress up for me, darling?” Eames says and regrets it right away. He can fucking see the frown Arthur must have on his face right now. “Sorry.”  
  
“Just don’t,” Arthur says, but doesn’t elaborate.  
  
“I’ll be right there,” Eames says and hangs up.  
  
It takes him only ten minutes but well, he was already in the neighbourhood. Arthur doesn’t look surprised at all when he opens the door and lets Eames in. Eames drops his bags at the hallway and walks through the flat. It’s small but nice, nicer than a hotel room would be, looks like a place someone could live in. Not Arthur, though. Arthur would never choose those colours for furniture, sadly enough. Eames opens the door to what must be the bedroom, and it is, and it has a large bed that’s not been made this morning, but there’s no evidence that Arthur’s had anyone else in here. He gives Arthur a sharp glance and then goes to the balcony. It’s very nice. He could sit here, drinking whiskey and fantasising about Arthur kissing him.  
  
“So, how’s the job?” he asks, eyes still on the scenery.  
  
“Not complicated,” Arthur says from behind his back, “but a lot of work. I’ll be here for a month at least.”  
  
“The weather’s not bad,” Eames says, turns and walks past Arthur to the living room. He should have whiskey in his bag. He finds it, gets two glasses from the kitchen and pours them both half-full. Then he takes one and goes to sit in the nicest-looking armchair. It’s wonderfully, shockingly orange. Arthur probably hates it.  
  
“About my crush,” he says. From the corner of his eye, he can see Arthur freezing a few feet away. At least Arthur took the glass of whiskey. There’s the soft wet wind coming in from an open window. The city sounds delightful. Eames’ heart is beating uncomfortably fast but there’s no chance either of them will hear it, not when the window is open and the city is right there. “I’ve been thinking.”  
  
“Really,” Arthur asks. Bloody hell, his voice. His fucking voice. He sounds confident and nervous at the same time, the bloody brilliant bastard.  
  
Eames takes a sip of his whiskey. “Yeah. I have. It’s been a bit tricky, of course. And, to be completely honest, I’ve not only been _thinking._ I went to a place the other night, the kind of a place where you can hit on people. Men.”  
  
“You went to a gay bar,” Arthur says in a dry voice, “I know what that is.”  
  
“Really,” Eames says as softly as he can, “because I’ve never heard that you would’ve hit on anyone.”  
  
“None of your business.”  
  
“But the thing is,” Eames says, “I wish it was. Anyway, I went to a gay bar and found someone there, someone very sharp and charming and clever. We went to my place, well, to my hotel room, I was staying in Paris, and then we fucked.” He can see Arthur’s shoulders tensing and something shifting on Arthur’s face. “There was nothing wrong with him, really. Nor with the sex. But, you know. He wasn’t you. I was thinking about you the whole time. Pathetic, really. He was fucking me from behind and I kept hoping that you’d have been there instead.”  
  
Arthur’s face has gone all blank. Eames takes a deep breath and tries to find a more comfortable position in the armchair. His back hurts, after all. He had a long flight and then he’s been walking around the city for the whole day.  
  
“So, it seems that my crush on you,” Eames says and bites his lip, “it’s quite deep in my system. I don’t think I can get it out. Perhaps with time. But for now, I’m afraid I’ll be thinking about you in various ways, you know, many of which are quite nonprofessional. And I’ll be a goddamn optimist about it. I can’t help it. I think it comes with having a crush. I’ll be thinking that maybe you’re there somewhere, thinking about me in non-professional ways.”  
  
He can see Arthur swallowing. “Eames –“  
  
“A few days ago, I was getting quite desperate,” he says, “because I began to feel like this crush I have on you, maybe it’s not as new as I thought. Because if someone was trying to kill me, you’d be the person I’d call. And that’s been the case for a long time now. Maybe it’s new that I spend every goddamn minute thinking about making love to you, but it’s not new that I like you terribly. And the thing is, I screwed everything up in Stockholm. I talked you into fucking me and told you I wanted to get rid of the crush on you, which isn’t true at all. I don’t want to get rid of the crush. If everything you wanted of me really was a nice fuck, I’ll be quite miserable with my crush, because clearly this thing you and me have, it’s not going anywhere. And if you weren’t, I mean, if you were actually pissed at me because I was being an asshole about the sex when I could’ve been nice about it, well, then I get that you’re angry at me.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, “I’m not –“  
  
“And when I was, let’s say desperately desperate, I did something I never would’ve otherwise.”  
  
“Oh, shit.”  
  
“I called Ariadne.”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth, closes it and then opens it again. “You called Ariadne?”  
  
“Yeah. To ask for her advice. How did you think I knew what to say to you right now? I goddamn rehearsed it with her for at least twenty times.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says and takes a deep breath, “you’re a fucking idiot.”  
  
“I know. Anyway, I called Ariadne, asked her how she’s been and all that, and how her wife is, and how is the architecture these days, and she told me and I didn’t really listen because I was so nervous about asking her advice. But then I told her the whole thing.”  
  
“Oh, _shit._”  
  
“Not with details,” Eames says, “although I think I told her that you wiped me clean with bloody disinfectant after we had a hand job in public bathroom. But otherwise, I gave her hardly any details at all. I just told her that we had sex in my hotel room, and it was nice and very passionate in an odd way, and that we kissed a lot but afterwards you just took off, and then the hand job happened and after that, you seemed pretty upset and angry about me. Guess what she said?”  
  
“I’d rather not,” Arthur says. He’s only standing there, holding the glass of whiskey.  
  
“She called me a bloody idiot and told me to talk to you about it.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“And when I said that perhaps it’s better that I leave you be and let things get back to normal, she said, and I quote, _Arthur fucking loves you._”  
  
“She didn’t,” Arthur says in a weak voice.  
  
“She certainly did,” Eames says, drinking the rest of his whiskey in one go. Then he stands up and means to pour himself more, but Arthur’s standing right next to the coffee table on which he left the bottle, so he ends up facing Arthur. Arthur doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping properly. He has dark rings under his eyes and the kind of a stare that goes through both skin and bones. Also, his hair is damp and sticking into odd directions, he’s wearing a grey shirt and shorts, goddamn _shorts_, and he smells lovely. “Hi.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have called Ariadne,” Arthur says but doesn’t step away from Eames.  
  
“I’m just wondering,” Eames says, reaching for the bottle of whiskey. His arm brushes against Arthur’s side. Arthur flinches. “I was just wondering, what she meant by it. Surely she didn’t mean what she said. _Arthur fucking loves you_. That’s a lot, don’t you think?”  
  
Arthur just stares at him.  
  
“She tried to take it back, of course,” Eames says. “But I hung up and thought about it for a day and then called her again and rehearsed everything I wanted to say to you.”  
  
“Did it go like you planned?”  
  
“Almost. I thought you would’ve kissed me by now, about at the point when I said that apparently you love me_._”  
  
“Can you please stop saying that?”  
  
“Darling,” Eames says, pouring whiskey in the glass and taking a sip. “The thing is, if you do, if you really have a… thing for me, I think we should see what happens. Because I have a thing for you, too. And it’s huge.”  
  
Arthur blinks. “Don’t –“  
  
“And I’m not talking about my –“  
  
“Don’t,” Arthur says again, but his eyes flicker to Eames’ crotch. Oh. _Oh. _This is good. This is… goddamn terrifying, that’s what this is, really, him standing in front of Arthur, asking Arthur to give him a chance, asking Arthur if he really loves Eames or if Ariadne’s badly misguided.  
  
“Well, then,” Eames says and tugs at the front of his trousers. “If that’s not clear already, I just want to say that I’m sorry I told you I wanted to get you out of my system. I don’t. I really don’t.”  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says. “Eames, I –“  
  
“Actually, I want you in,” Eames says. “I want you in me. Particularly, I want your –“  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says quite firmly, but there’s something in his voice, like he’s biting back a smile.  
  
“Your cock,” Eames says. “I want your cock. In me. If you’re up for it.”  
  
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Arthur says, empties his glass of whiskey and then takes Eames’ and empties it as well. “I should’ve never told Ariadne I’m in love with you. It doesn’t make sense at _all_. You’re just awful. Your sense of humour is…”  
  
“So good.”  
  
“Not very good,” Arthur says. “And please, stop talking about your cock.”  
  
“I thought you liked my cock,” Eames says and grins, “darling.”  
  
“And I don’t regret at all that I wiped you with the disinfectant,” Arthur says, “you deserved it.”  
  
“I didn’t know you were in love with me,” Eames says. “If I had known, I would’ve been a bit more romantic about it. I wouldn’t have let you wank me in the bathroom, for example.”  
  
“You let me fuck you and then kept on talking about how you want to get rid of me,” Arthur says, “I didn’t really have the emotional capacity to bring you to my hotel and have you in my bed.”  
  
“I get it,” Eames says, “I do, I’m genuinely sorry, and it’s alright, and all that.”  
  
“It’s alright,” Arthur says, slowly raises his hands and places them on Eames’ shoulders, brushing Eames’ collarbones with his thumbs through the fabric. “I’m still not going to let you fuck me. I don’t like it.”  
  
“I don’t mind about what we do in bed as long as you want me in your bed,” Eames says, grabbing the front of Arthur’s t-shirt. “And I’m afraid my flirting is going to get quite intense now that I know how much you like my cock.”  
  
“I know,” Arthur says. “It’s fine. Just don’t talk about your cock when we’re working.”  
  
“But I can call you darling.”  
  
Arthur glares at him. “Yeah.”  
  
“And we’re going to be together.”  
  
“I suppose so,” Arthur says, trailing his fingers over the back of Eames’ neck.  
  
“Can I come with you to the job tomorrow? I want to meet your team.”  
  
“Absolutely not.”  
  
“Fine. I guess I’ll stay naked in your bed for the whole day, waiting for you to return.”  
  
“Just shut up”, Arthur says and kisses him.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It can’t be the morning already. Eames pries open one eye. There’s a streak of sunlight on the floor, cutting the room in half, and climbing over the pile of his clothes, everything but his socks that are still on his feet, for some reason. Arthur’s clothes, naturally, are folded in a chair or hung in a closet. The rest of Arthur is still in bed, lying so close to Eames that when he shifts, his elbow pokes at Arthur’s back.  
  
“Hi,” he says, when Arthur rolls onto his back and glares at him. “Sorry. Good morning.”  
  
“You’re really here.”  
  
“Yeah.” He bites his lip. “Sorry about that, too.”  
  
“Don’t,” Arthur says, slowly raises his hand and runs his thumb on the side of Eames’ face. “If you want to leave, then fucking leave already. And if you don’t, stop pretending that this is nothing.”  
  
Eames swallows. He thought he’d seen Arthur in every possible situation, but he’s never seen Arthur like _this: _half-awake, worried but not bothering to cover it, and at the same time, happy and not knowing what to do with it. He touches Arthur’s face and Arthur doesn’t threaten to break his fingers. He leans closer to kiss Arthur and Arthur doesn’t pull away.  
  
“So,” he asks Arthur after a few kisses, “do you remember why I still have socks on?”  
  
“You kept saying that your feet were cold,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes, but he looks like he thinks it’s bloody _sweet._  
  
Eames bites back a smile. “Makes sense.”  
  
“You also kept asking me to pull a blanket on them,” Arthur says, “when I was trying to fuck you.”  
  
“Oh. That must’ve been annoying.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“But you like me anyway.”  
  
Arthur nods.  
  
“By the way,” Eames says, “how long have you liked me?”  
  
“Eames.”  
  
“I mean, how long have you been in love with me?”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath. His hair is a mess. There’s a hickey on his neck. Eames feels quite smug about it, even though he has a vague feeling that Arthur put a few on him as revenge. “I don’t know. I wasn’t counting.”  
  
“Because it’s not like you count fucking everything,” Eames says, brushing the hickey with his fingers. Arthur flinches and grabs his wrist. It’s almost like they’re holding hands.  
  
“Five years.”  
  
“Five –“  
  
“Well, four years and ten months. So, you can imagine how much sympathy I had for you,” Arthur says, “when you were complaining about how you’ve had this bloody awkward crush on me for five days.”  
  
Eames opens his mouth, but there’s really nothing to say, except – “Five years?”  
  
“Don’t be smug about it or I’ll kick you in the groin,” Arthur says and then seems to remember they’re holding hands, “nicely.”  
  
“Darling,” Eames says, “you should’ve said something.”  
  
“You were already flirting at me,” Arthur says, “and I knew you didn’t mean anything by it.”  
  
_Oh._  
  
“Anyway, I thought it’d pass.”  
  
“It didn’t, though.”  
  
“No, it didn’t.”  
  
“I’m so glad it didn’t,” Eames says, “because I was a bit slower at this than you. As we now know. So, do you have a collection of pictures about me in your wallet? And did you ever find out about those photos that I got taken when I was much younger and quite pretty even though not in this elegantly rough and unpolished way that I am these days? They’re a bit erotic. I think you’d like them.”  
  
“I trust that you’ll have them framed and hang one on my wall,” Arthur says and takes a deep breath. “I should get up. I have work.”  
  
“Maybe a quick blow job first, darling.”  
  
“I couldn’t leave it at that,” Arthur says, letting go of Eames’ hand and running his fingers through Eames’ hair. “You should take a shower. I think you have something in your hair.”  
  
“Your cum, maybe.”  
  
Arthur laughs at that and then gets out of the bed. Eames stays until Arthur has been to the bathroom and back, has his hair put neatly back, and is all buttoned up in his fancy suit that doesn’t go well with the weather. In the evening, Arthur’s surely going to be sweaty and cranky and frowning, just the way Eames likes him. He follows Arthur around in the flat until Arthur’s already at the door, putting shoes on. Eames is wearing his socks and nothing else, but then what? Perhaps this is what Arthur will be thinking about the whole day, a gorgeous English man standing in his hallway, naked. Besides the socks, of course.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, his hand on the doorknob.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Arthur bites his lip.  
  
“Just ask me, darling. Whatever it is. Do you want me to buy groceries?”  
  
“I was just wondering -,” Arthur takes a deep breath. “Are you going to be here in the evening? Really?”  
  
Eames looks him in the eyes and nods. “Yeah.”


End file.
